“Stop! you shoot again and I’ll bore you.” His tone meant business and Dick checked himself. “What does this damned work mean, anyway?” demanded Jim as Fred came back, feverish with excitement. “Mean,” shouted Fred, “it means that this coward ripped my horse’s flank with his spur.” “Did you do that, Dick?” again demanded the peacemaker. “Yes, I did, and I’ll do it again,” was the sullen reply. “Then you got about half of what you deserved. It was a low down trick. Now, don’t you ever shoot again at an unarmed man, or I’ll take a hand mighty quick.” “I’ll teach the little devil a lesson that’ll last him.” “Come on, you coward,” challenged Fred angrily, ready to leap from his horse. “Here, you young bulls,” commanded Jim; “shut up and square up. You’re even.” “Yis,” put in Pat; “play the gintlemin, ye’ll slape better.” “Now forget it!” said Jim more cheerily; “and don’t do any bellerin’ to-morrow, you understand.” “You mean that I shan’t tell Dan how his horse has been treated?” said Fred. “Well, I guess I will.” “Oh, let it pass,” said Jim. “Oh, let the cow-baby beller,” sneered Dick. “That settles it,” said Fred; “we’ll see who’s the cow-baby.” “Bully fer you, me boy,” said Pat. “It’s a thoroughbred ye are, fer sure.” “The kid’s all right,” said Jim encouragingly; “he stuck to that buckin’ bronk like a tick. He’ll stick to anything. Come,” he added, spurring up, “let’s hit the trail; it’s long after bunk time.” “Yis, and when ye tuck yourselves in the blankets, make sure ye say yer prayers twice,” called Pat, as they struck a livelier pace. “Thank the Lord we’re all gettin’ home to-night without punctures in our hides.” A few moments later they had all tumbled into their beds in the old shack. But it was some time before either of the boys had worried through their troubled thoughts and fallen asleep. Dick kept nursing his bitterness against his companion into a real hate, and he seized every opportunity thereafter to express his mean feelings by ridiculing and injuring Fred in every way he could. CHAPTER IX AFTER THE BALL The sun found a sleepy crowd at breakfast next morning. The boys had life enough, however, to hector one another about the fun of the night before. “It’s hip, hooray for the Mormon lassies,” chirruped Pat, as he banged about among his cooking utensils. “And how about the Mormon beer, Chuck?” asked Dick. “Dry, dry, dry,” he sang dolefully, “dry as--” “Their bloomin’ prayers,” put in Dick; “did you hear that long-faced old elder bawl to the Lord for blessings? I thought he’d never quit; but Teddy here took it like a saint. The kid’s pious enough to show ’em the way to glory.” “Yes, and your smart talk shows your breeding,” said Dan, rather sharply. “My breeding’s good as yours, Old Primrose.”